


A Foolish, Beautiful Man

by Mango_Lioncat



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Spoilers, inspired by all the npcs in the game that dont know how to keep their mouths shut, yes geralt is the foolish beautiful man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23516323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mango_Lioncat/pseuds/Mango_Lioncat
Summary: 5 times someone insulted Geralt while Jaskier was present, and the 1 time it really didn't matterthis is soft self-indulgent fluff written during quarantine, can be read as TV or Game Geralt, whatever your preference, lovesonly rated M because of all the fucking swearing but other than that this is basically a G-rated fluff pool
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 400





	A Foolish, Beautiful Man

The first time Jaskier heard someone insult Geralt it was so quick the bard barely had enough presence of mind to recognize what had occurred in the first place. There was just a quick toss of a word, swift as a viper and just as venomous.

“ **Freak**!”

It was almost in passing, just from someone on the street while the witcher and the bard walked through the busy street. The insult took a moment for Jaskier to register, having to process who the insult was directed to.

He didn’t get a chance to see who tossed the insult - they’d already disappeared into the crowd before he had a chance to get a look at them. The bard paused in the street, his hesitation causing him to fall behind a few paces behind the towering witcher.

“Jaskier, you coming?”

The bard shook his head of his thoughts, and picked up the pace to catch up with the White Wolf. “Didn’t you hear that?” he asked, brushing his shoulder with the witcher, contact unavoidable with so many people shoved into the city of Novigrad.

A grunt. “I hear everything. What specifically?”

“The insult, just. Someone in passing - I thought it was directed at you.”

He grunted again. “Likely was. Which one are you talking about?”

Jaskier nearly stopped, taken aback, and it proved enough time for the moment to be over. Geralt grumbled under his breath, and led Roach by the reins. “C’mon,” the Witcher growled, “let’s get out of this stinking city.”

The bard is reminded by Geralt’s simple statement how much more sensitive the witcher’s hearing is, which brought to question..

Just how many insults _did_ his sour-faced companion have to face while on the Path?

\--

Honestly, Jaskier expected more when Geralt was faced with a direct in-your-face insult. Y’know. Something intentional, direct, more confrontational than a simple tossed-over-the-shoulder insult from the curb. Part of him anticipated it, even. One could only imagine the ballads it inspired! An intrepid wanderer defending his honor from a dirty low-life, or perhaps showing a stuffy high noble what the witcher was truly made of.

Unfortunately, it was nothing like that.

On that night, the two companions entered the inn after a long day of travelling and monster-slaying. Geralt handed a small pouch to Jaskier while they both stood out in the growing cold. Bright amber eyes reflected in the waning twilight, more cat-like than wolfish. “Here,” the witcher grunted. “For a room, and a hot meal. I’ll set up Roach in the stables.”

Jaskier went in breezily and got the room set up without any trouble. The inkeep was friendly enough, as small villages go.

“The soups fuckin’ disgusting tonight. Just a warning.”

“Oh, my friend and I are well-acquainted with such food on our journey. Anything hot to warm us up will be wonderful, thank you.”

The innkeeper grumbled and shrugged one shoulder, good-natured. “Well enough, then.”

Jaskier claimed an isolated table against the back corner, the kind Geralt tended to favor, and pulled out his lute while he waited for the meal. His fingers danced skillfully yet idly across the strings, and he tuned the instrument with the air of someone who was exceedingly familiar with his craft.

The bard knew Geralt had entered the inn when he felt the shift in atmosphere throughout the room. Heads turned, lips warped into sneers, and whispers amongst gathered patrons. A couple of people spat in his direction. Some muttered insults under their breath. But no one dared to confront the tower of a man, covered in armor with two sharpened swords strapped to his back.

“ _Please_ tell me you’re not singing here tonight,” Geralt grumbled in greeting, taking the seat opposite Jaskier across the table.

“Please tell me _you’re_ not going to sit here brooding all night like you usually do,” Jaskier returned shortly, a smile in his voice.

Geralt grunted, and reached for one of the two mugs of ale set at the table.

Two bowls of sludgy soup clattered harshly to the table. Splatters of it went up around the two, and Jaskier immediately cringed away, holding his lute protectively to his arms.

Both looked up to the distrusting eyes of the innkeep, all hint of friendliness gone. He turned those eyes to Jaskier. “Didn’t mention your friend was a _Witcher_ ,” he sneered.

Jaskier looked up at him blankly, fingers plucking the strings of his instrument in a trepid manner. “Does-” he glanced toward Geralt. “I didn’t believe it mattered-”

Geralt took another deep gulp of ale, and said nothing.

The man grunted, a sneer at his lips. A couple of terse moments passed, but the man eventually growled. “Ye already paid. An’ I’m an honorable man. Sure some folks in town have use for a Witcher that you can help tomorrow.” The man heaved a sigh. “Ye can stay.” He glared at the two of them sternly. “But yer outta here by daybreak tomorrow. An’ I don’t want to see you here again.”

“Fine,” Geralt replied, just as direct. And that was that. “We’ll be out before dawn.”

Jaskier held back a groan. He wanted to sleep in tonight.. Guess that wasn’t going to happen.

The man seemed almost revolted just from Geralt addressing him. His lip curled, and he spat at Geralt’s feet close to the table, then uttered right at him-

“ **Disgusting mutant**.”

_This was it_. Jaskier wiggled a little in place, and looked eagerly to the Witcher. A direct insult that couldn’t be simply brushed off. A chance to defend his honor-!

Geralt stirred his soup a bit, and took a bite. The man left, returned to the front bar.

“This soup tastes like shit.”

Jaskier’s jaw almost dropped. “ _That’s it_?” he said, shocked, staring at Geralt like he grew two heads. “Aren’t you going to do something?”

The Witcher turned bright golden eyes to the bard, a note of curiousness in his eyes. Jaskier could read the White Wolf easily at this point - he knew the man didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

Jaskier gestured to the innkeeper who’d already taken his place back behind the counter of the bar. “He insulted you! Your- Your honor! You’re not going to fight him back?”

Geralt blinked, and took another bite of the proclaimed shitty soup. “No,” he grunted, and it almost sounded like a question, like Jaskier was the absurd one for insisting Geralt stand up to the man. The _gall_. 

“But _why_ -?” Jaskier asked. “He has no reason to be cruel to you, surely. “Don’t you want to, I dunno.. Make sure he pays for saying something like that?”

Geralt sighed, and put his soup down. “Jaskier.. If I accosted and picked a fight with every person who insulted me to my face, I would never be able to walk more than ten paces in any direction. Not worth the time, energy, or effort.”

Jaskier fell silent, and something began to take root deep in his chest. He gazed at Geralt, considerate. The Witcher caught him staring, and gestured with one spoon to the bowl in front of Jaskier.

“Now hush up and eat your soup. It’s the only time of day I get any peace around here.”

Jaskier didn’t bother performing for this particular tavern that night.

\--

The next insult came from a guard patrolling the city of Novigrad not very far into the future.

The Witcher had business here, invited to meet up with an old friend.

“Won’t be here, long,” Geralt said to Jaskier as they walked past the gates to the city, bypassing the line entirely after the guards recognized Geralt and allowed him and his companion in. The Witcher grunted. “Don’t like the city. Too loud. Too noisy. Too crowded.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jaskier said, already buzzing with anticipation. He’d never been in the city of Novigrad before- and he could already imagine what culture and art lay in the city- the exhibits, the theaters-!

“ **Can’t believe they’re letting freaks like you in**.”

Ah, the distasteful comments by people who didn’t know their mouth from their asshole.

This tasteless comment came from a guard, flanked by two others in their turtled-up armor, clanking by with sword and spear in hand. Definitely a group not worth picking a fight with, though Jaskier had no doubt that Geralt could still kick their asses.

All of Jaskier’s uplifted spirits immediately took a sharp nosedive at the thoughtless sneer on their part, and his expression soured. He shifted in closer to Geralt’s side, the Witcher leading Roach through the streets on foot.

As usual, when faced with a comment like that, or a spit in his direction, Geralt ignored it. Jaskier watched him, studying the man’s face for any kind of reaction, but there wasn’t a single hint as to what was going through the Witcher’s mind.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Jeraskier finally asked, having wanted to voice the question that bugged him when it came to the Witcher being constantly bothered with lowly insults.

“Doesn’t what bother me, bard?” Geralt echoed with somewhat of a weary sigh, looking over his shoulder to the younger man.

“The insults,” Jasker filled in. “The.. constant spitting-on. The..’mutant’s’, the ‘freak’s’... After all you’ve done for people all over the Continent saving them from monsters and breaking curses.. Don’t you wish they would stop?”

Geralt shrugged with one shoulder, thoughtful and slow with his words, as he always was. “Of course. But that’s never going to happen. It’s always been the Witcher’s way- no use letting it get to me. You get used to it over the years.”

Bothered, Jaskier readjusted the strap of his lute across his chest, and glowered at his feet while he walked forward in silence.

The two of them continued on quietly. For once, Jaskier didn’t feel like playing his lute, his mind too active with how frustrated he was. It wasn’t just the insults from passer-bys and arses on the street- it was how easily Geralt brushed it off. It upset Jaskier - Geralt shouldn’t have to get used to behavior like that. Jaskier knew first hand not just how capable of a Witcher Geralt was, but also what a kind and good man he was. Jaskier lost count of how many curses Geralt broke, or how he would sometimes turn down offered coin from people when he didn’t feel it was necessary. Orphans saved, dead ones avenged, monsters killed.. All for coin, and for the betterment of humanity.

But for whatever reason, no one else could see Geralt’s ever-present humanity past the white silver hair and the golden cat eyes.

“Jaskier.”

The bard looked up, startled, and found himself caught up in the very eyes he was thinking about. The younger man’s face burned a little pink to be caught so abruptly by Geralt, and he stopped.

The Witcher stared at him intently. “Don’t let it upset you. It doesn’t bother me, anymore. It shouldn’t bother you.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together, a protest on his lips. It wasn’t fair. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t _right_ -!

But he wouldn’t refuse Geralt. His companion. His friend.

The bard nodded shortly, and ducked his head to look away. He didn’t say anything.

Geralt seemed content enough, and he turned to continue the walk in the city.

Jaskier didn’t say so, but it still bothered him. No way it couldn’t. Didn’t mean he was going to tell the Witcher, though.

\--

“ **Aaahh! Mum!** ”

Jaskier couldn’t help but jump when the child’s scream pierced the air. “What was _that?!_ " The fingers plucking at his lute halted, and he looked around Roach’s rump to see a small, brown-haired child run off toward a farmhouse, toys forgotten in the yard.

The bard observed how his stoic companion paid no attention to the scream. He frowned, then jogged up to Roach’s front. “Not gonna check on em?” he asked, playing a tune with only half a mind. “Might be something a Witcher could help with.” Perhaps the child had seen a monster of some sort.

Geralt grunted, his usual choice answer. “Right about that,” he ground out.

“Hm? How so?” Jaskier asked, his steps light-footed as they kept walking forward. From behind, and in the clippity-clop of Roach’s hooves against the ground, he could still hear the sound of the child crying, comforted by a soothing parent.

The Witcher grunted again, and looked off into the distance, his cat eyes seeing gods-know-what. Jaskier almost didn’t expect a response, but then he said-

“Hm. Kids don’t usually like me. Stories.”

..Oh.

Jaskier supposed that made sense. He could recall as a child being told at night stories of frightening witchers with their cat-eyes and their hearts of stone. No drop of emotion. Nonhumans. Mutants. Knew only the endless Path and the killing of monsters until they were slayed themselves. Always on the road, never resting.

Kidnapping children.

_“If ye don’t eat yer dinner, I’ll send you to the Witchers. They kidnap children y’know, turn ye into a mutant no better than the monsters they kill. So mind your ma!”_

Jaskier pressed his lips together, and looked back to his lute, intentionally trying to pick up the melody into something more light-hearted. He was fed up with the sad stuff, anyway.

\--

Hair dripped down Jaskier’s neck, sliding beneath his collar and down his back. Outside, the rain only got worse. Poor Geralt looked like something the cat dragged in, his hair clinging to his face from the wet. Jaskier was almost tempted to tease the man not to shake his hair dry like a dog would, but held his tongue for once. It’d been a rough day for them both, slewing monsters and crafting new tales to song, each to their own trade.

Geralt was exhausted; Jaskier could tell. It was late, dark, and freezing because of the storm. He was even moodier than usual, his lips turned just at the end in the hints of a scowl, a fair warning to Jaskier and all around not to get on his bad side.

Jaskier stepped easily into the role as the charming one who would go about getting their room in order. “Need a room. Preferably with two beds if you’ve got ‘em.”

The innkeeper grunted. “Only got one room left, just with a single bed in it.”

“That’s fine,” Jaskier amended, his smile strained. He’d slept on his bedroll plenty of times before at inns- made no difference as long as the two of them had a safe place to rest and recover. He pulled out a handful of crowns. “We’ve got a horse, too. Already checked her into the stables, but this should help cover for that.”

The innkeeper, a gruff and moustached man, took the coin, and looked curiously between Jaskier and his vastly different companion. Jaskier watched in real time as the man’s eyes looked Geralt up and down, suspicious, then darted briefly toward the door when another boom of thunder and a flash of lightning sounded from outside.

Then the arse had to open his mouth and speak.

“ **Ahh, fuckin’ witchers. Stormin’ because of you.** ” He spat at the floor.

Jaskier’s smile froze in place. Where he leaned forward with one arm on the counter, his hand tensed, clenching hard into a fist.

“Sorry?” he echoed, the atmosphere in the air suddenly crackling and charged as lightning from that one. Fucking. Comment.

The man blinked beneath bushy gray brows. “Witchers. Don’t you know? They cause the rain to fall bad like this. Damn shame, too. Gonna ruin the crops tonight- lotta people are going to go to bed hungry because of it so that you two can have a place to sleep.” He gave Jaskier and Geralt a stern look. “So ye best be grateful for what this town is givin’ up for ye.”

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me,” Jaskier said, his voice light and choked, disbelieving as he stared at the innkeeper. His smile remained stretched across his face. “You- you’re seriously blaming him for the _weather_?” Jaskier was familiar with the common superstition, of course, that the presence of witchers brought bad weather to the towns they were visiting. Omens of death and doom.

But just because Jaskier was familiar with the old superstition, that didn’t mean he actually _believed_ it.

“Jaskier-” a familiar voice from behind rumbled, deep. The bard held up a hand so the innkeep could answer, eyes looking suspiciously between the pair of them.

“What else can you pin the storm on? Was a perfectly clear day until you rolled in.”

The bard let out a disbelieving, disgusted puff of air. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You must have mush in between your ears instead of a brain - We come here to get rid of whatever monster is plaguing _your town_ , save _your people_ for what’s sure to be a measly sack of coin, and you get your knickers all twisted saying that we’re to blame for the _weather_?!”

Jaskier doesn’t realize he’s started shouting until his voice cracks. “You people- I can’t believe you! None of you have a lick of dignity, not an ounce of honor the way you treat him-!”

“Jaskier..” A firm hand touched his arm. Jaskier shrugged it off without looking to his companion.

“I”m _not_ finished, Geralt,” he replied shortly before turning back to the inkeep. His face colored bright red, and he let his words build in volume. “This man selflessly and tirelessly travels from town to town to help whatever village he stumbles on to next, and you have the gall to spit on him and his trade because it’s _fucking raining_ outside!”

Geralt’s voice grew sterner; Jaskier ignored him. “Bard, come on now-”

Jaskier held both hands clenched into the wood, fingertips splintered from the fibers. “Do any of you have a clue what it’s like to be wandering on the Path, day in and day out, without so much as a thank you for the work he does? Risking his life with every contract for _your_ benefit! Don’t any of you know that just because he’s a Witcher, doesn’t mean the coldness and cruelty doesn’t hurt? He _has_ feelings you-”

The bard’s words cut off, suddenly choked from him by his own brain as he struggled to catch up. Feelings. He froze in place, as if stunned.

Everyone in all the Continent knew Witchers didn’t have emotions - that’s what made them nonhuman in the first place, an amalgamation between the beasts they slay and the humans they work for in exchange for coin.

The bard went deathly quiet, and the innkeeper let out a blustery laugh. "You can’t be serious, lad. Every daft fool on the Continent know witchers can’t feel emotions. They’re not like you and me-”

Jaskier couldn’t control himself anymore, and before he could get another word out, he spun on his heel and stormed from the room, back into the downpour of rain and wind outside.

He doesn’t hear the door close behind him, because it swings on its’ hinges, and Jaskier knew without a doubt someone followed him out. One guess as to who it was. “You don’t have to say anything,” Jaskier said shortly. “I don’t expect you to. I’m just.. Upset.”

The resulting silence was enough for Jaskier to know it was Geralt behind him, and the man’s deeper voice sounded out against the rain. “Thought I told you not to get upset over people being like that.”

“How can you expect that of me, Geralt?” Jaskier demanded, voice angry as he spoke hard into the storm, refusing and perhaps not ready to face his towering companion. “After I know what kind of man you are- seeing how cruel they are to you, how little they think of you.. And they don’t even _know_ -”

The sound of the rain filled his ears, and he hoped it was enough to drown out his sob. “They’re _horrible_ to you, Geralt. Won’t even let it rain without pointing a finger in your direction. And if you’re not going to be upset by it, then someone has got to.” Jaskier hunched his shoulders forward, eyebrows scrunched up as hot tears mixed in with the cold rain, soaked him to the bone.

Jaskier doesn’t leave any time for Geralt to speak up, his words rambling out like a handful of marbles onto the ground. “And that fucking comment about feelings. It’s horse shit. Of course you have feelings. Even if you’re a Witcher you’re still a person.” Jaskier’s voice hitched from his crying. “How could they be so needlessly cruel to you? After all you do for them, they’re so ungrateful. I don’t understa-”

An arm reached out, pulled the bard back a couple steps, and in one befuddled moment, Jaskier found himself cradled in the kind arms of the towering, intimidating witcher.

“You’re a good man, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, and the bard almost wouldn’t believe the witcher was speaking such kind words if he wasn’t listening just now with his own two ears. “A better man than I could ever deserve to have as..”

Jaskier’s whole body held tense, taut as a string on his lute. “..As a friend?” he asked.

And just like that, the witcher, the gate to his impenetrable fortress open, closed all over again. His arms went tense, and he drew away, leaving Jaskier cold and wet in the storm.

Jaskier stared up into those unforgiving amber eyes, and Geralt grunted, looked away. “Come on. Let’s get you warm, dried off.”

Jaskier sniffed, and looked off to the side. He shouldn’t have expected anything else, anything more. Even if the superstition about witchers’ feeling was wrong, that didn’t mean Geralt was an open book when it came to them. “..Okay,” he acquiesced, fighting his own feelings. “Yes. Let’s.”

And even though the two shared the room that night, Jaskier couldn’t shake the sensation that he had never felt more alone.

-+1-

This last time was different.

Because it was the time Jaskier could tell the hurt-filled words, tossed about so carelessly, actually _hurt_ Geralt.

They were in a small town, one far too close to comfort on Geralt’s part. It wasn’t this town in particular that worried him, but.. The fact that it was close to _another_ certain village close by.

It would be all right, though. It would. And that’s what Geralt told himself while he sat huddled in the back of the tavern with a mug full of ale he hadn’t bothered to touch.

Jaskier provided a wondrous distraction to the other patrons, singing and jaunting about the room, his cornflower blue cap clinking with golden crowns from more generous listeners.

Geralt would never let Jaskier know, but the Witcher found himself entranced by the sweet bard. His heart was soft, blue eyes gentle, warming with every song he gave life to. His fingers danced lightly over the strings, his voice elevating songs Geralt had heard many times before. Truly, he was the best bard Geralt had ever known.

But it wasn’t just his voice, how he sang songs, how he played his lute and enchanted the crowds with his music-

He also cared. His too-big heart that somehow was big enough to even care about someone as standoffish as Geralt. Got upset when someone insulted him, something that Geralt had adjusted to decades ago. It was something he didn’t even let himself pay attention to because it just wasn’t worth making a fuss about. Besides, anytime he tried to stand up for something as flimsy as ‘honor’, it always came back to bite him. People called him a brute for it, a bully, claimed he just liked to pick on defenseless citizens that had no business defending themselves against someone like him in the first place.

No one ever bothered to point out that maybe such people shouldn’t talk big if they couldn’t back it up, but.. Such was the lot in Geralt’s life on the Path.

“Well, not too bad, huh?” Jaskier asked, collapsing on the other side of the table. One of the barmaids came up to take his order, and the bard gleefully ordered a drink for himself after a successful night of swaying the crowds with his song.

“You hungry, Geralt?” the bard offered, grinning. He jangled his hat of crowns in front of the Witcher triumphantly. “I’ll pay.”

Geralt huffed out a soft smirk, amber eyes reflecting the light of the candles lit throughout the room. “No, I’m fine. You enjoy yourself, though. You did well tonight.”

Jaskier grinned, as if the witcher offered him the moon instead of just a measly compliment. “Oh, Geralt, you’re too much some times, honestly!”

The Witcher gazed at him from across the table, his smile slight but warm. He saw the bard go somewhat still, their gazes locking. Geralt watched something play across Jaskier’s face. Something warm and wanting-

“Oi! Witcher! You Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt’s gaze shifted at once to the sound of the voice, eyes narrowing into slits as they focused at the point over Jaskier’s shoulders.

A man, flanked by two others. Beefy. Laborers on a farm. They smelled like manure, and Geralt could see bits of straw clinging to their rough clothes.

One thing was certainly plain: Geralt had _no idea_ who these buffoons were.

And they looked squared up to fight.

“Do I know you?” he drawled lazily, sensing how Jaskier tensed when he turned in place to look at the group ready to go right into a rabble. Geralt saw how the small man’s hands went tense, clenching, and he looked fearfully in Geralt’s direction, but thankfully said nothing.

The leader sneered. “Yeah. You fuckin’ know us. Or at least, we know you, **Butcher of Blaviken.”**

Geralt watched, a storm of emotions, and he did the unexpected when his first instinct was to look toward Jaskier, making an attempt to gauge the other man’s reaction. He watched the bard’s eyebrows furrow in thoughtful consideration, muttering the words under his breath. “Butcher of-?” as he tried to piece everything together. 

The Witcher turned his eyes away, not wanting to see Jaskier reach his own conclusions about what Geralt’s name could possibly mean. He looked hard at the men standing him down. “You’re making some dangerous assumptions here. And you’re picking a fight I don’t think you want to start with me.” 

The man unsheathed his sword. “Come on then, Butcher.” 

Geralt didn’t let himself flinch, and he stood up. “If that’s what you want, fine.” He unsheathed his steel sword at his back. “We’ll fight.” 

“ _Oh no you don’t_!” 

From out of nowhere, the innkeeper, a woman well into her years, came over and walloped the ringleader with a wet rag, dirty from who knows what. Geralt raised an eyebrow, and at his side, Jaskier let out a startled little, “Oh!" 

The man turned to the woman, rage clear in his eyes, “Listen here, lady-!” 

She slapped him across the shoulder. “You all know the rule! No fighting in my tavern. You do it outside. And you-” The innkeeper turned sharp and vengeful eyes to the Witcher, who didn’t dare to let his guard down. “You get out. You’re not welcome here. If I would have known who you were, I wouldn’t have let you enter in the first place.” 

Geralt fought a sigh, but compliantly sheathed his sword. Of course. Should have known. This is what they got for choosing to go to a town so close to Blaviken. He knew there was a chance people would know what happened there and make their own assumptions about what happened. No one cared about the true perspective, about what truly happened in Blaviken. 

They needed a bad guy, a villain in their story, an explanation as to why so many would be killed in the streets of their home town. 

And Geralt, a Witcher, a _mutant_ , was the perfect scapegoat. 

“I’ll leave,” he said, gruff. “But let my friend stay. He has nothing to do with this.” 

The Witcher heard Jaskier’s soft little sound of protest, “Geralt-” 

“Hush, Jask. It’s fine. Nothing I’m not already used to.” 

The bard went quiet, averting his eyes down and away from the Witcher’s stare. 

The innkeeper didn’t think on it for too long before she gave a short nod. “That’d be fine. He offered good songs for us tonight. He can stay.” Her eyes narrowed. “But you, Witcher. You’ve got to go.” 

Geralt didn’t bother asking for any coin back if he’s just paying for the one room instead of two. No point. Not a chance they’d give any kind of refund to the ‘Butcher of Blaviken.’ He nodded, voice a low growl. “Fine.” 

The Witcher stalked out the door without another word, grateful at least that he didn’t already unpack any of his bags. 

He gets a couple of spits and some glares tossed his way on his path out. The ones that were threatening to kill him moments ago dare to growl, “You better get out of here as soon as you can, Witcher. We won’t tolerate you being here any longer - it’s an insult to the town.” 

Geralt doesn’t answer, but he understands well enough. It’s not worth the trouble to fight the whole town just to stay in one inn for the night. He can just camp outside and return on the Path in the morn. “See you tomorrow, Dandelion,” he called over his shoulder, not gracing the aggressors with a response to their threat. 

He doesn’t hear Jaskier say anything in response, and he honestly doesn’t want to hear it, whatever the bard may have to say. He doesn’t want to have to explain himself again, go through the details of what happened in Blaviken and how he got that name. Surely the bard knows the story, anyway. He doesn’t want to see- 

Geralt pushed the door open ahead of him, and he can already hear Roach snuffling and neighing quietly at the trough where she’s tied up. The door swung closed behind him, and the sound of pattering feet, quick and light, sounded right on his heels. 

Geralt knew before even having to look who it was. He could smell it, could distinguish the certain step in his walk, the familiar fluttering heartbeat. He sighed, and stared wearily ahead while he continued his walk to where his loyal horse waited. “What are you doing, bard?” he asked, voice low and gravelled. He tossed a pack up over Roach’s rump, and began the process of readjusting his beast’s saddle for riding. 

Jaskier remained quiet for a handful of long and slow seconds, thoughtful. “What I always do,” he finally spoke. “I’m following you.” 

It’s cold outside, but it doesn’t touch Geralt from how he warms at the sentiment of Jaskier following him, staying close. 

“You didn’t have to,” Geralt rasped. He clenched his hands, but didn’t turn to face the bard. “Give up a warm bed and a hot meal for the night.. You didn’t have to..” 

Jaskier stayed silent, but this time, Geralt could hear the bard stepping near, walking around him and finding the gold of Geralt’s eyes. Careful, the Witcher pivoted slowly in place to face him, his own mouth downturned. 

Geralt could hardly look into those earnest blues of his, and he glanced away. 

“You know I don’t care about any of that, right, Geralt?” Jasker asked in a soft voice. “What they said in there, what everyone says about you and what you might have done.” 

Geralt frowned, turned his eyes down. “I know you don’t,” he answered. “And I really don’t know why.” He huffed out a breath. “Putting up with the same insults, the spitting. The threats. You don’t have to listen to it. Don’t know why you bother.” 

And suddenly, Jaskier was impossibly close, near enough that he could rest one hand to the center of Geralt’s chest, and the other could go to cup one side of Geralt’s face. His palms brushed against that brushy stubble, and he turned Geralt’s head to find his eyes. And in the bard’s, there was only blue sincerity, and a faint, small smile. 

“You foolish, foolish man,” Jaskier murmured, something playful and aching in his eyes. “Don’t you realize how beautiful of a man you really, truly are?” 

Geralt’s heart stopped, jumped right up into his throat, and the bard reached on his tiptoes to finally, _finally_ find and touch his lips to the Witcher’s. 

The kiss was soft, and sweet, and over far too early if you were to ask Geralt’s opinion on it. His hands wrapped around Jaskier’s hips, pulled him in closer as he opened his mouth to deepen the kiss between them. 

He loved it. He loved Jaskier. Loved how the man fit perfectly in his arms, so small and light next to Geralt’s bulk. The sunlight piercing through his cave of darkness, his hope for redemption. 

Jaskier parted from the kiss, eyes shining, lips pulled into a bright and sweet grin. Geralt decided that red was his new favorite color, especially when it was dusted so beautifully across the man’s soft cheeks, brown hair askew. “That reason enough for you, Witcher?” Jaskier asked, playful and warm. 

Geralt smiled, faint, and pulled the bard forward for one more kiss, color bursting in his chest, a smile pulling at his mouth. “More than enough, bard.” 


End file.
